Zoey Scandova sat hunched at the mahogany desk in the grand McKrapper Foods library, a space more decorative than functional until now. The golden wall sconces threw soft light across the velvet-red room, filled with encyclopedias, old company files, and untouched corporate biographies. But none of it helped her, not this time.
It was McKrapper's first time ever being nominated for the IPR Contest, and honestly? They were clueless. No historical performance to draw from, no strategy blueprints from the archives. She felt like a soldier with no map, marching into a battlefield blindfolded.
With a pencil between her teeth, laptop open, and at least six open books around her, Zoey muttered,
"I swear, if I make it through this week without pulling my wig off, God himself owes me a miracle."
Corelle popped her head in with two steaming mugs.
"You've been here all morning. Coffee or matcha?"
"Matcha," Zoey replied, rubbing her temples. "I need to stay calm, not jittery."
Corelle passed it over, then took a seat beside her. "Okay, let's talk strategy. Even if the company's green, you're not. You're smart, you're sharp, and you're not entering this alone."
A moment later, Leslie joined them. He dropped a binder onto the table with a satisfying thud.
"IPR Seminar Transcript. I found the old one from last year. It's not much, but maybe it'll help."
Zoey flipped through it like it was a holy scroll. "Oh my God. Leslie, I could kiss you."
He smirked, sinking into the leather chair across from her.
"Do I have to be worried you'll actually do it?"
Zoey raised an eyebrow.
"Only if I win this thing and we make the cover of Forbes.
Later that evening, the official IPR orientation livestream aired from the organization's headquarters. Zoey, Corelle, and Mr. Dominic gathered in the private screening room, wine glasses in hand, grape juice for Zoey. The screen flickered to life as the IPR officials began to lay down the schedule.
"This contest is more than just about food or product quality. It's about business, sustainability, innovation, and presentation. Think of it as a fusion of Shark Tank, MasterChef, and Miss Universe."
Zoey blinked.
"You're joking."
"On Monday, all companies will be officially welcomed—just like a pageant. Think red carpet, speeches, photo ops."
"Tuesday, each company explains why they deserve to go global. This is your persuasive pitch session."
"Wednesday is a break day, no contest—but strategize wisely."
"Thursday, a grand fashion show. But not just any fashion show—you'll need to create wearable outfits using your product packaging to show its recyclable potential."
"Friday is the final challenge: a brutal debate on crucial business and food industry topics. This round counts the most."
"And on the following Monday, the winner will be crowned."
Zoey stared at the screen like it had insulted her personally.
"A fashion show?! In recyclable outfits? What do they think this is, Project Runway?"
Corelle clapped her hands in excitement.
"Girl, this is your moment! We're gonna eat this up ,figuratively and literally!"
Leslie leaned in, more serious.
"It's a tight schedule. You've only got four days left before it begins. We have to leave Sunday. You ready?"
Zoey didn't answer. She just sipped her matcha and stared into the middle distance like she was processing the meaning of life.
The week went by like a blur.
While Zoey buried herself in prepping notes, final presentations, and mock interviews, the rest of the team helped pack her things for the IPR House—an elite compound where the contestants would be monitored, mentored, and mildly tortured under the guise of luxury and televised exposure.
She paced the room in her satin robe that Sunday morning, flipping through old footage of previous contests. That's when she saw Serena De-Aguas.
An IPR legend, Serena had ripped through the previous year's debates like a lion in Louboutins. Her voice was cool, commanding, and sharp enough to slice through egos. One clip showed her calmly dismantling her opponent's argument with a single,
"You see, if you can't feed both the public and the planet, then what you're building isn't a company. It's a crime scene."
Zoey choked on her breath.
"Oh hell no,she's there this year too?"
Leslie popped his head in the doorway.
"Yeah. Rumor is she's representing the Sanchez Group again. You'll probably face her in the debate."
She turned around dramatically.
"So basically, I'm walking into the Hunger Games with a damn spatula."
By Sunday evening, Zoey's bags were loaded into the branded van, and the crew was dressed in formal casual—just enough to hint that they meant business, but knew how to party.
As they pulled out of the McKrapper estate, Zoey looked out the window. Her fingers clutched her notes, heart hammering in her chest.
"Time to make a legend out of a rookie," she whispered.
Corelle grinned beside her.
"Or at the very least, shake the table and flip a few chairs."
And with that, the van rolled toward the IPR Contest House…
The game had officially begun.